Fault Lines
by himitsutsubasa
Summary: Crowley admits that he's not responsible for somethings and had absolutely nothing to do with others.


A lot of things are his fault. He'll admit that without a second thought. Like that one time when he knocked all the power out of the greater part of Hong Kong during rush hour (not the movie mind you, thought he could claim credit for the annoying reruns that kept playing on transoceanic flights) or when he gave people the idea to set the reparations after World War I to the point of German economic collapse due to inflation. He was not responsible for Nazi Germany (and neither was Hastur, despite what that little twat said) or the Syrian conflict (thought he might have indirectly assisted War in stating his great idea that the Americans should intervene).

He was most certainly not responsible for the moment the son of God was nailed to the cross.

And died on that cross.

That didn't stop him from getting a commendation for it though. The truth of the matter was that he hadn't even known who was going to die that next day until he read the print.

Jesus of Nazareth.

Well, there seemed to be a mistake, he thought. He tucked the paper into the pocket of his robe and stared at this goblet of wine. Yes, there should be a mistake. He couldn't imagine that the angel would allow this. He downed the goblet and let it clatter on the table top.

He stood with the crowd, cape pulled over his head, shielding his eyes. He stared up at the hill and thought on words he'd heard at the sixth hour. The man had washed his hands clean of the crime and oh how he wished he could do the same. He'd seen the angel in the crowd staring all the same, following the crowd to the hill, and crying as the man heaved his last breath.

For all his time and trouble, for all the things he'd done, he couldn't help but defy his nature too and cry as the Son of God died for the sins of man.

And perhaps demon alike.

"Crowley, dear, stop staring at the Easter eggs, you'll make them hatch chicks."

A narrow eyed stare peered at over dark lenses at the angel. "That's not a thing." There was something ethereal about the whole kitchen, he knew. The unobstructed light in the middle of the bloody London fog and trellis of flourishing morning glories outside served to only compound that feeling.

"How do you know?" The man bustled about his kitchen dying eggs all colors and tartan patterns. He recognized the wire set as the stuff of infomercials (another one of his inventions).

Crowley drawled on, "I created the internet meme. I know for a fact that 'staring at eggs will make them hatch chicks' is not a thing. Video sharing would prove that. It will be posted." He tapped his pocket (containing the luxurious new Apple iPhone) meaningfully.

"Darling, I what does that even…" Aziraphale turned on him halfway through painting a poor egg a pink and green tartan pattern (now that deserved a commendation from hell).

He stirred his cup of tea. "Modified, rule 35 of the internet." The angel furrowed his brow and tapped gloved finger against the fragile, empty shell.

"I'd heard of that, perhaps I should…"

"Don't look it up, angel, there is a reason why I got a commendation for the internet and you didn't."

The angel went back to dipping his eggs. "You did?"

He blinked around the kitchen above Aziraphale's little shop. He'd more or less thought he'd see books on every single available surface, but they'd all restricted themselves to the shelf above the Keurig rack, where teas spun in little wire holders with a little ethereal help.

"Yes, I did." Crowley didn't actually do it. He'd just given some twenty-something loser the idea to post X-rated files on the internet and another twenty-something to really create social media. In essence, he is responsible for "the internet", the part of the internet that people thought of when they heard "internet".

The angel set the poor, poor egg on a wire rack and proceeded to dip the next in blue dye. "You just tried to distract me, didn't you?"

"Did it work?"

The angel dipped the egg into orange (of course he'd go for blue-orange tartan next). "Well, yes. I can't remember my question."

"Rather good for me then." He hadn't known his angel was asking a question in the first place, but that was moot point.

"Hmm… yes…" Aziraphale took out a paint brush and started dabbing on dark red lines.

"You know, I received a commendation when He was nailed to the cross?"

Crawley felt his ears perk up a little. It certainly wasn't how one started the whole "so, how's lunch at two" conversation. "No, I didn't."

Aziraphale sighed, gently placing the egg on the rack. "I didn't do it."

The demon lad back in his chair watching the angel putter around his kitchen to make more blue dye and find the glitter (one of the good side's inventions; though if Ke$ha and nightclubs had any impact the industry, dark side had taken over rather happily). "I didn't either."

He gave Crowley a bitter smile.

* * *

The truth about humanity is fairly simple. They are greater than the angels and the demons combined. While they don't stand in the same regard as heavenly beings, the fall (or saunter vaguely downwards) and make miracles happen. But, perhaps the greatest thing, is that they manage to in good intentions, do harm, and in doing harm, create good. They neither sway to the side of heaven or hell, simply because there wouldn't be one without the other.

Long ago, perhaps in Eastern Asia or the Middle East (whatever conflict is currently going on aside), someone (with the probable prodding of an angel and a demon with an Arrangement) realized that good could never exist without evil, and vice versa.

Crowley snapped his fingers changing the tea in his cup into watery honeyed wine (and all the tartan patterned eggs into swirls). Now, if only the big guys above and below would figure that out, then we would not have this "2012" thing going on all the time.

* * *

Loved the book and I know they went over this.


End file.
